


dim the lights

by owlerie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Fluff, M/M, SKTS Fluff Week 2021, SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021, mild angst but like SUPER mild its mostly just pre-confession nerves, the jackals are a band hehehehehehe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29528940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlerie/pseuds/owlerie
Summary: “It’s not about you,” Atsumu says, plucking a few pensive chords. “It’s not about anyone.”Kiyoomi’s eyes are wide and dark, endless midnight pools staring through Atsumu’s fractured mask like the answer to his question is sitting two inches below Atsumu’s left eye.It’s too bad that Atsumu’s a liar. Always has been.a short piece for sakuatsu fluff week day 5: band au/confessions
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49
Collections: Sakuatsu Fluff Week 2021 <3





	dim the lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spaceraes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceraes/gifts).



> i cant believe this is my debut sakuatsu piece. i really cant. these boys dragged me down the rabbit hole back in NOVEMBER and it took me this long to write a full fic for them. for shame, percy, for shame. 
> 
> anyway!! this was loosely based off a band au that [raiden](https://twitter.com/spaceraestuck) and i came up with ages ago and have been returning to regularly ever since. 
> 
> also, for anyone interested — go check out the song "i scare myself sometimes" by the smith street band. that's about as close of an approximation to the song sakusa and atsumu are writing as i can find!
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: [now with gorgeous art by @spaceraestuck on twitter!!](https://twitter.com/spaceraestuck/status/1362439411280011270?s=21)

Kiyoomi steps up to the mic, six feet four inches and a bass guitar’s worth of clean, poised elegance, and Atsumu’s world stops dead. 

> **_— T-minus 16 days, Osaka, Japan, Morning._ **

“I’m sick,” Hinata says over breakfast, and a pit of dread opens up in Atsumu’s stomach.

Really, he should have seen it coming. Over a plate of eggs and a half-finished mug of lukewarm black coffee, Sakusa makes a face.

“No you’re not.”

“Am too,” replies Hinata, with a pointed cough into his elbow for good measure. “You know it’s flu season.”

He’s right, not that it would have mattered — Atsumu was there, Sakusa dragged him out just like everyone else to line up at the nearest pharmacy for his shots. If you eat, sleep, breathe in the same vicinity as Sakusa Kiyoomi, Atsumu has discovered, there are some things that just won’t be compromised. 

All the precaution, however, all the vaccinations and hand-washing and vitamins — apparently none of it means jack shit, because Hinata is coughing at the head of the kitchen table and Sakusa looks like he’s about five seconds away from either reaching across it to strangle him or making a mad scramble to barricade himself in his room for the next week and a half. Atsumu stabs at a piece of pork. Hinata finishes off his bout of hacking with a pathetic-sounding wheeze.

“Yer not sick,” says Atsumu. “Ya can’t be sick, we have a show next week.”

Hinata whines, dropping his face into his hands and coming dangerously close to upending his own breakfast in the process. “I’m going to _die.”_

“You’re not going to die.”

“I _am,”_ Hinata repeats. “ _He’s_ going to kill me.” One finger, thin and calloused, points across the table to where Sakusa is plotting either murder or hasty escape. Probably both.

Atsumu sighs. He doesn’t have time for this. He _really_ doesn’t have time for this. If by some miracle Hinata manages _not_ to infect the rest of them with whatever surprise virus crawled up his sleeve, he’ll still have to miss out on at _least_ a few days of practice, and right before a show to boot. 

“If ya die on us, I’ll kill ya myself,” he bites out. Sakusa raises one elegant eyebrow, eyes narrowed over the rim of his coffee cup. “Go get some rest. I’ll talk to the venue and see what we can get done.”

“What about Kageyama?”

Atsumu resists the _very_ strong urge to bury his face in his hands and scream. Fortunately — and rather unexpectedly — it’s Sakusa that comes to his defense.

“I’ll speak to Wakatoshi,” he says bluntly, standing up from the table and beginning to gather up his dishes. “They won’t mind rescheduling.”

With that, the conversation ends, leaving Atsumu to finish his breakfast amid the steady rush of water in the kitchen and the less steady cacophony of dry coughing from Hinata beside him.

It’s going to be a long week. 

> **_— T-minus 0 days, Tokyo, Japan, Night._ **

Atsumu saves it, somehow. Never let it be said that the frontman of Black Jackal — darling of MSBY Records, prodigy guitarist and vocalist extraordinaire — can’t work a crowd as easy as breathing. All it takes is a cocky grin and a nod in the direction of a group of teenagers pressed up the banister and the venue comes alive with noise, the audience filling the shocked silence with their own voices, parroting the lyrics back at him. If Atsumu didn’t know any better, he’d say it was smooth enough to cover even the two seconds of jarring silence over the sound system, the inhale of breath deafening in the mic and the off-key stutter of his fingers against the strings the moment Kiyoomi opened his mouth. 

Beside him, Hinata throws up a victorious hand, earning a swath of cheers from the left side of the room. Kiyoomi, ever the observant one, glances at Atsumu in the periphery of his vision — his eyes are narrowed, his mouth parted halfway through the second verse. 

Atsumu swallows and puts his lips to his own mic. 

> **_— T-minus 15 days, Osaka, Japan, Afternoon._ **

Atsumu learns very quickly that living with a sick Hinata is, perhaps a bit surprisingly, absolutely _miserable._

It’s not like it comes as a shock, really. In the two years since the members of Black Jackal finally scraped together enough of an income (assisted by a _very_ posh record deal, thank you Inunaki) to afford a shared house, Bokuto has come down with the common cold more times than any of them can count. Atsumu’s fallen victim to it a few times as well, and even Sakusa has come downstairs once or twice with a cough and runny nose, despite his extensive stash of face masks and industrial grade disinfectants. 

They’ve never seen Hinata like this, though. It’s _weird._

The thing is, Hinata just doesn’t _get_ sick. Even the previous spring, when the rest of the house had gotten laid up with the flu and Atsumu spent the better part of a week alternating between hacking his lungs up and suffering through distressingly tender fever dreams, Hinata showed up as bubbly as ever, healthy as a horse and well equipped to nurse them through the worst of it. 

Now, though? Now he shuffles through the hallways with a duvet secured tight around his shoulders, shivering and sneezing and falling asleep the moment he spends more than a minute and a half in any one place. Sakusa had shoved a face mask and a bottle of fever medication in his hands and retreated to his room on the top floor three hours ago, Bokuto was tasked with an emergency grocery run in Hinata’s stead, and so it fell to Atsumu to take care of the sniffling lump of orange hair and blue fabric balled up on their only good armchair. 

“What did ya say it was again?” Atsumu asks, not looking up from the bubbling pot of soup in front of him. Stir twice, clockwise. Dump in half a knob of grated ginger. Stir again, clockwise. Osamu would be so proud. 

From his nest in the living room, Hinata lets out a grating wheeze and a cough before replying.

“Strep throat.” God, he sounds awful. Atsumu winces.

“Sounds nasty. Can you eat?”

“Ugh. No.”

Again, _weird._ Hinata has never been anything but enthusiastic about his cooking. Aside from that time he tried to make some fancy-looking French dish that involved alcohol and open flame and nearly ended up burning down their brand-new house, of course, but that was really more about the circumstances _around_ the dinner and not the quality of the food itself. 

Oh well. First time for everything, apparently. 

“You need to try and get this down anyway,” says Atsumu. “You won’t get better if you don’t eat.” Pulling down a bowl from the shelf above him, he begins ladling soup in, avoiding the large chunks of vegetable as best he can. He’s nearly done when another voice pipes up from behind him.

“He’s right, you know,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu spills a third of the bowl’s contents down the front of his shirt.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Omi. Warn a guy, wouldja? _Shit.”_

The broth is beginning to seep through his layers of clothing, steaming hot and sticky. Awful. _Horrible._ He’s leaving the nursing to Sakusa next time someone gets sick. 

“My bad,” replies Sakusa, in a tone that makes it _very_ clear that it isn’t his bad at all. “I just wanted to know if either of you need the car. I’m going to the studio.” 

“Bokuto has the car,” Hinata pipes up, then immediately devolves into another bout of nasty-sounding coughs. Sakusa grimaces. After a moment, he raises his head, wiping his nose on the balled-up tissue in his hand. “He’s getting groceries. It’s Friday.”

To his credit, Sakusa looks only mildly put out by the news. 

“Whaddaya need to go to the studio for?” Atsumu asks, busying himself with refilling the bowl after its unfortunate mishap.

“Practice.”

“Practice?”

It’s not like they don’t ever play alone, of course, but it still strikes Atsumu as a little strange. After all, the entirety of Black Jackal lives under one roof now, none of them really _need_ to go out of their way to find a rehearsal spot, and it’s a lot easier to play together than it is to try and time their entrances alone, without Bokuto on the drums behind them. 

“It’s—” Sakusa starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops to his hands, thin fingers lacing and interlacing. “It’s a personal project.”

Before Atsumu can heckle him further, Hinata breaks the silence with a set of truly gruesome-sounding noises. Sakusa startles at the sudden noise, gaze darting between the bowl in Atsumu’s hands and Hinata’s blanket fort on the armchair.

“Jesus, kid, eat something,” Atsumu gripes. Hinata whines and shoves his face into a nearby pillow. “It’s just soup, it won’t kill ya.”

Hinata sticks out his tongue. “I’m only a year younger than you, you know,” he replies. “And my throat feels like I swallowed a mouthful of glass.”

“ _Eat._ ” 

Atsumu manhandles the bowl into Hinata’s reluctant hands, then turns back to Sakusa — only to find him gone. It’s not an issue. He needs to change out of this shirt anyway, before the stain starts to set. 

The offer of going to the studio together dies on his tongue. 

> **_— T-minus 0 days, Tokyo, Japan, Night_ **

“Stick around after the show, guys,” Sakusa says into the microphone. “We’ve got a special encore for you tonight.”

Atsumu barely hears him over the blood rushing in his ears. His head is a cacophony of _Kiyoomi Kiyoomi Kiyoomi_ and the sound of his voice, low and breathy even through the distortion of the microphone. He sang like he was born to do it, like the songs were written for him and no one else. 

Christ. They _were._ Atsumu is the stupidest man on Earth.

> **_— T-minus 10 days, Osaka, Japan, (Early) Morning_ **

It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Atsumu drops his head against the cool wooden body of his guitar with a hollow _thunk._

“Let’s go through it again,” Sakusa says. It’s not kind, really, but not unkind either. It just _is,_ like Sakusa himself. His fingers pluck out a quiet series of notes, low tones that fill the soundproofed room and vibrate through Atsumu all the way down to his bones.

 _God,_ Atsumu is tired. 

And here’s the worst thing — even this has lost its novelty. Atsumu’s lost count of how many encores Black Jackal has done over the years, let alone how many times they’ve practiced together. It’s a routine by now; Atsumu with a mic in his hand, Hinata on the ratty old acoustic he bought when they first met, Bokuto sitting cross-legged on the cajón with a wide grin on his face, Sakusa a respectable distance away keeping the bassline steady. The crowd eats it up, not knowing how much fucking _work_ it takes to tone down their rough, rowdy rock music into an acoustic lullaby for every single performance. 

Two years ago, Atsumu would have lost his fucking _mind_ at the possibility of getting to spend an all-nighter alone in the studio with Sakusa. Teenage fantasies of late-night hushed whispers, Sakusa’s fingers brushing over his own as he points out fret changes, which strings to pluck to line up perfectly with the bassline — nineteen-year-old Atsumu would have given anything for that.

Now, though? He kind of just wants to sleep. 

“Miya. Let’s go through it again.” 

Atsumu sighs. “It’s too fast, I think. And maybe we should pitch it down a little. This isn’t really in Hinata’s range.” He takes a moment, strumming a few discordant notes until he settles on something that sounds vaguely right. “Can you sing for me?”

Sakusa levels him with a flat stare. “I don’t sing.”

“Just the once, please? It’s easier with the harmonies.”

In lieu of a response, Sakusa shifts his hand further down the neck of his bass, fingers plucking a steady harmony. His lips stay shut, bitten raw and pursed in concentration.

This is as good as Atsumu gets. He knows that now. It’s more than enough. 

Shaking his head clear, Atsumu joins in on the verse, tired voice croaking out the lyrics as best he can. It fills the empty recording room, reverberating gently off the walls — it’s nothing like it is at a show, when the sound of his own voice gets lost in the rush of the crowd. It’s softer, simpler. It’s what they all started this band for in the first place.

“Miya,” says Sakusa after a long moment, and it’s only then that Atsumu realizes he hasn’t been playing. “You’re falling asleep. Let’s call it a night.”

“‘M fine, Omi-omi. Song’s not done.”

“You’re not. It’s good enough for now — and don’t call me that. Come on, I’ll drive home.”

The fog of exhaustion clouding Atsumu’s head makes it difficult to parse the words. Sakusa is right, they can’t get anything done like this — still, it’s nice, just sitting with him. It’s not often they get a moment to just themselves, not when the four of them all live _and_ work together. Privacy is a thing of the past. 

“We hang out more than enough,” Sakusa says. _Shit._ Atsumu’s talking out loud.

“Yes, you are. Very observant.”

“Omi-omi—”

“It’s fine. Don’t call me that.” Sakusa’s voice is strangely soft, lacking the bite it usually does. Atsumu leans his forehead against his guitar again, smiles into the wood. 

“What should I call ya, then?”

It’s the standard response, given countless times over the years they’ve known each other. 

“My name is fine.”

Atsumu pulls in a shaky breath. Now or never, don’t fuck it up.

“Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa — _Kiyoomi —_ blanches. Atsumu feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Finally, _finally,_ after a petrifying moment, Kiyoomi exhales long and slow.

“It’s not— terrible,” he says. Atsumu rests his hand on his thigh, grips the fabric of his jeans until his knuckles turn white. “Should I call you Atsumu?”

It’s so _formal_ for someone he’s known going on three years now — but really, Atsumu wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s Kiyoomi, after all. He nods, once, sharply. The morning hours stretch out long and endless between them.

“Come on, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says softly. “Let’s get you home.”

> **_— T-minus 0 days, Tokyo, Japan, Night_ **

“What the fuck was that?” Atsumu snaps, one hand white-knuckled on the doorframe and the other tangled frantically in his hair. “What the _fuck_ was that, Omi? Ya wanna tell me what that was out there? ‘Cause I sure as _hell_ don’t know.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t answer him, doesn’t look up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, digging through his bag for a spare cable. Atsumu feels like the world is spinning out from underneath his feet. He feels like he’s taking a step off an impossibly high cliff and can’t quite figure out whether the swoop in his stomach is from flying or falling. He feels like grabbing Kiyoomi by the neatly pressed collar of his shirt and shaking him until he explains why the _hell_ he hadn’t told Atsumu before.

Or kissing him, which would probably be just as bad.

“We have to do the encore,” is all Kiyoomi says, after an excruciatingly silent minute. “Come on, Atsumu. You can be mad at me later.”

> **_— T-minus 8 days, Osaka, Japan, Night_ **

One of Atsumu’s better-kept secrets is this — insomnia. 

It started in his teen years, when he first moved from Hyogo to Osaka and subsequently lost the white noise of his brother snoring in the bunk above him every night, and over the years it’s progressed into a complete inability to shut his eyes at night unless he has some sort of noise running in the background.

Being a very well-adjusted adult, he’s found plenty of fixes for this — curated playlists, a box fan in the hot summer months, those weird videos where a pretty girl eats crunchy food uncomfortably close to a microphone. 

For the past year, his cure for insomnia has come in the form of the YouTube channel _sakiplays_ , a vlog-slash-music channel that has just the right combination of soft, breathy vocals and gentle piano to get his brain to shut off for the night. _Sakiplays_ is nothing like Black Jackal — which is good, really, Atsumu doesn’t think _anyone_ could fall asleep to their music and he wouldn’t want them to — but even still, there’s a strange kind of solidarity Atsumu finds between himself and _sakiplays’_ lyrics. They’re odd and eclectic, paying an unsettling amount of attention to things like the price of vegetables at the grocery store, the feeling of fabric on skin, the _you_ that pops up in the few love songs to grace the channel.

The sound couldn’t be more different, soft indie singer-songwriter pitted against the hoarse vocals and crunchy guitar of Black Jackal fame, but Atsumu knows a kindred spirit when he sees one.

Or hears, in this case.

It’s a week and a day to the show — rescheduled but just barely, despite the fact that Hinata is only marginally less sick than he had been a week before — when Atsumu turns back to _sakiplays_ in an attempt to get some shuteye before the dawn starts to creep in through his bedroom window. He’s spent nearly every night in the studio with Kiyoomi, half the time spent trying to fix their absolute mess of an encore performance and the other half spent lounging around on his phone while Kiyoomi presumably paces his way around the building out of sheer frustration. 

Needless to say, it’s starting to take a toll on him, and he needs his beauty sleep if he doesn’t want to look like a half-dead goblin on stage come Saturday.

 _Sakiplays_ has three new songs up on their channel, two untitled instrumental pieces and one video labeled, simply, _by your side._ Atsumu passes over the latter in favor of the former.

The description, as per usual, is nothing but a short explanation of the song’s meaning. Sometimes the inspiration is simple, a real-life encounter adapted into verse, but sometimes it’s a bit deeper. This one follows in the vein of every other love song Atsumu’s found on this channel — an outlet for unspoken feelings, no more, no less. 

_You make me want to set things on fire,_ it starts. Eloquent, possibly worrying, but Atsumu sees the charm. _You make me want to press you up against the kitchen counter and kiss you just to get you to stop talking. Sometimes I think you might care for me, too, if I ever needed it. I think I do need it, just between us. It’s so hard, staying so quiet._

And here’s the other reason he likes _sakiplays_ so much — it’s _relatable._ He gets it, really. He understands the songs about anxiety shaking him apart bone by bone because he’s _been_ there. He gets what it’s like to uproot his entire life and move somewhere new for nothing but the love of music. And, more recently, he can sympathize with the songs about all-consuming, pointless, ill-fated love. He gets it. He does. 

So he plays _by your side_ and sets it to repeat, tucks his phone away on the shelf behind his headboard, and falls asleep to the sound of doomed love lamented. 

> **_— T-minus 0 Days, Tokyo, Japan, Night_ **

Atsumu grabs at the fabric of Kiyoomi’s shirt, pulling him to a screeching halt in the back hallways of the venue. They’re not exactly alone — the occasional drunk girl walks by, in search of the bathroom six feet to Atsumu’s right — but that doesn’t stop him. 

“We can’t go on stage like this, Omi. _I_ can’t go on like this.” 

Kiyoomi turns, looks him up and down with those deep brown eyes. “You’re right. You look like hell.”

 _I can’t sing that song with you,_ Atsumu thinks, but he’s too chickenshit to say it. Kiyoomi probably knows, anyway. _God,_ weeks of good work all coming undone because Hinata had to go and get _fucking_ strep throat, and Kiyoomi _had_ to take his place at the mic. 

“What was it about, Omi?”

“Don’t call me that. What was _what_ about?”

Atsumu sighs, tightens his hold on the white shirt in his fingers. “You know. You _have_ to know. Is this why you never wanted to sing in front of us?”

> **_— T-minus 3 days, Osaka, Japan, Morning_ **

It gets worse, because of course it would. Murphy’s law has never once passed up a chance to make Atsumu’s life miserable. 

The four of them sit around the kitchen table, plates in front of them and the smell of coffee and honeyed tea thick in the air. Bokuto is uncharacteristically quiet. Hinata is even more so. 

“Let me get this straight,” Kiyoomi says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re not sick anymore, you went and got checked and the test came back negative.”

“I drove him there myself on Wednesday,” Bokuto chimes in. He looks miserable. Atsumu doesn’t blame him. 

“But,” continues Kiyoomi, “now you can’t speak.” 

Hinata opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a hoarse wheeze. He screws up his face in frustration, glancing between Atsumu and Bokuto as if either one of them can translate his thoughts, then slouches back in defeat. Hesitantly, he raises his hands, one fist on top of the other, index fingers extended. 

_That’s right._

“Where the fuck did ya learn sign language?”

A tilt of Hinata’s head, another flurry of fingers. _Kenma taught me._

Atsumu, thankfully, is well-versed enough to pick up on Hinata’s slower hand movements — thanks in full to a late-night internet deep dive in his more sleepless days of early adulthood. Bokuto seems to understand well enough that he doesn’t need translation, and Sakusa—

Kiyoomi just barrels along with the conversation as easily as if Hinata had spoken his reply, so clearly he doesn’t need it either. 

“That’s fine and all,” Atsumu says, cutting off whatever Kiyoomi had been about to say. “But what are we gonna do about the show?”

Hinata pauses, looking around the table at each of their faces, before replying. _Bokuto knows my parts._

 _“Dude,”_ Bokuto says, sounding affronted. “Car karaoke is _sacred._ ” 

Atsumu doesn’t exactly agree with that statement, but he does know that Bokuto has, to put it bluntly, an atrocious singing voice. He shakes his head. Bokuto looks relieved. 

“What about you?” Atsumu asks, turning to Kiyoomi. It’s mostly out of courtesy really — Kiyoomi’s answer has been the same every single time Atsumu has asked him, never wavering once over the years they’ve known each other.

“I don’t sing.”

“That’s gotta be a lie. Come on, it’s an emergency, I’m sure its fine if ya—”

“I. Don’t. Sing.”

Kiyoomi’s expression is hard, implacable. Atsumu raises his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright, fine. Guess ya won’t sing. We’ll just have to make it work without backups, I guess.”

Hinata curls his hand into a fist, moving it in a vague circle across his chest. _I’m sorry._

“It’s fine, not yer fault,” says Atsumu. “Just focus on gettin’ better, yeah?”

> **_— T-minus 0 days, Tokyo, Japan, Night_ **

“It’s always been you, idiot,” Kiyoomi says quietly. His voice is low, hoarse, little more than a breathy whisper — Atsumu has to strain his ears to hear it over the noise of the venue. “Did you really—”

“Jesus, Omi,” replies Atsumu. “ _Kiyoomi._ I’m stupid enough for the both of us, ya know that.” Kiyoomi opens his mouth to retort, but Atsumu shifts the hand holding his shirtsleeve, spreads his fingers to grip Kiyoomi’s forearm instead. Kiyoomi goes silent. 

“Maybe if ya took me up on my offer literally _any one_ of the dozens of times I asked ya—”

Kiyoomi huffs. “What? We wouldn’t be having this conversation here? Would you rather we had it last night? A week ago?”

Atsumu uses the hand on Kiyoomi’s arm to tug him closer — there’s surprisingly little resistance, Kiyoomi stumbles forward on his unfairly long legs, steadying himself close enough for Atsumu to lean forward and rest his forehead against Kiyoomi’s shoulder. 

“I’d rather we had this conversation years ago, actually, but this is fine.”

Sakusa chuckles, low and breathy. Atsumu can feel the vibrations through the fabric of his shirt, the way his shoulder shakes with the motion of his laughter, the warmth of his breath ghosting over the shell of Atsumu’s ear. 

“You’ll be the death of me, Atsumu,” he says. Then — so gentle that Atsumu could have imagined it — a soft, barely-there kiss atop his head. “Let’s go play that encore, yeah?”

> **_— T-minus 1 day, Osaka, Japan, Night_ **

“What’s it about?” asks Kiyoomi, five hours into their nightly duet. 

Atsumu blinks. “What?”

“The song,” Kiyoomi says, heaving a tired sigh. “Who is it about? Maybe that’ll help you figure out how you want to play it.”

Atsumu flushes. It’s not like he can _tell_ Kiyoomi, really — how does he explain away the fact that every love song he’s had Black Jackal play for the last two years was about its own bassist? — but of course, that doesn’t stop Kiyoomi from probing. 

“Is it about that ex of yours?”

“Kita? _Jesus._ No.”

Kiyoomi hums. “Is it about someone else we know?”

“Do I look like someone that writes love songs about his friends?”

“So it is, then. Is it about me?”

Atsumu feels his breath turn to ice right there in his lungs. To say no wouldn’t be a _total_ lie — it’s a bit about himself too, the back-and-forth riff he was _supposed_ to sing with Hinata gave a secondary perspective on the narrative of the song — but even the thought of explaining that feels a bit too much like giving up. 

“It’s not about you,” Atsumu says, plucking a few pensive chords. “It’s not about anyone.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes are wide and dark, endless midnight pools staring through Atsumu’s fractured mask like the answer to his question is sitting two inches below Atsumu’s left eye.

It’s too bad that Atsumu’s a liar. Always has been. 

The silence stretches out long and heavy between them, the way it always does whenever they find themselves at an impasse on these quiet shared nights. It’s becoming more and more comfortable as time goes on — once, Atsumu thought Kiyoomi was awkward and stilted whenever he lapsed into thought like this, but over time he’s come to realize that this is just the way Kiyoomi _is._ The silences are a reassurance that Atsumu doesn’t need to preen and put on a show for him at all hours of the day like he would for anyone else. He can just _be._

It’s this realization that does it, in retrospect.

Atsumu sets down the guitar, fiddles with his phone a bit. “If you want,” he starts slowly, pausing to make sure Kiyoomi is listening to him. “I can show you what helped inspire it?”

And just like that, Kiyoomi’s interest is piqued. He leans forward, closer to Atsumu than he’s been all night, close enough that Atsumu can smell the muted scent of pine and laundry detergent clinging to Kiyoomi like a second skin. “What is it?”

“Another artist I’ve been listening to,” Atsumu replies, doing his best not to look at the dip of Kiyoomi’s collarbones beneath the fraying neckline of his shirt. “Helps me sleep usually, but it’s got the same sort of feel I’m trying to go for.”

And with that, he pulls up his YouTube history and lets the soothing sound of _sakiplays_ fill the empty studio.

The effect is instant. Kiyoomi recoils like he’s been slapped, jerking back so abruptly that the back legs of his chair hit the ground with a dull _thud._ His expression is pale and closed, off, none of the wide-eyed wonder that had filled his gaze just a minute before. 

  
“Where did you find that?” he asks, voice cold. 

Atsumu blinks. He had expected quiet interest and some suggestions on how to tailor their encore performance to fit better, not— 

Not whatever this is. 

“Showed up in my recs like a year ago, why? It’s not that bad, really, if ya just—”

“That’s not it. _Christ._ ” Kiyoomi reaches up, runs a hand through his curls and down over his face with a pained sigh. “Alright. I’ll bite. Why do you want us to sound like this?”

That’s… a good question. Atsumu can’t exactly say _oh, it’s because this talks about love the same way I talk about love_ — that would lead nowhere good, and very fast. 

On the other hand, Kiyoomi is looking at Atsumu like he’s grown a second head, and the longer Atsumu goes without answering, the worse it feels. He just has to buck up the courage and say _something._ He’s always been able to talk himself out of sticky situations, there’s no reason this should be any different. 

“I can tell,” he starts, pausing to gather his thoughts. “I can tell the songwriter really loves whoever it’s about, even if they’ve never said it.” _Toeing dangerously close to the line, Atsumu._ “And I want people listening to our song to feel the same way.”

Kiyoomi deflates. 

“Alright,” he says, voice soft. When he looks up at Atsumu, his eyes are wide and pink-rimmed — the lack of sleep must have gotten to him, too. 

“Alright?”

Kiyoomi reaches out towards Atsumu’s hand, pressing his fingers gently until they curl back around the cellphone. “I think it’s fine as it is, really. But if it makes you feel any better, I can fill in on vocals for us tomorrow.”

Atsumu blinks. “Ya mean it?”

Something in Sakusa’s expression falls into place, a faint light of determination burning behind his tired eyes. 

“We’ll make it a great show. Now come on, we're headlining with the Adlers tomorrow and I need to rest.”

> **_— T-minus 0 days, Tokyo, Japan, Night_ **

The encore goes off without a hitch. 

Atsumu knew it would, of course — he knew it ever since the moment Sakusa opened his mouth to sing and _sakiplays’_ voice rang out. Still, there’s a difference between writing a song with someone in mind and actually being able to perform it with them, live in front of an audience of hundreds, all watching you fall deeper in love in real-time. The gentle back-and-forth of the verses turns into a frantic overlap of voices, Hinata strumming away silently on his acoustic, Bokuto pounding a fist against the side of his cabál in time. 

Kiyoomi had foregone the bass. He’s sharing Atsumu’s microphone instead. 

The lyrics seem a little stilted now — it’s strange to sing about unspoken love once it’s been… well, _spoken,_ but that doesn’t bother Atsumu too much. After all, now he gets to put every drop of his feelings into one performance, pent up over the course of years and let go in one glorious rush of emotion. 

Really, there was never anyone but Kiyoomi. Hinata could have been the picture of health, could have taken his place on second mic like he’s done at every show before, and it still wouldn’t feel right without Kiyoomi there, catching his eye from across the head of the microphone, parroting back Atsumu’s lines until their voices rang out in harmony over the sea of cheering faces. 

Everything is different, now. It’s taken them a hell of a lot of time to get here, but Atsumu wouldn’t have it any other way. 

This, after all, is where they were always meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it, thank you so much for reading! comments and kudos are always SUPER appreciated. and, of course, you can find me on [twitter @kiiyoomis](https://twitter.com/kiiyoomis)!


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